A-Hunting We Will Go
by Gazooki
Summary: A venture into the mind of a beast struggling to hold onto what remains of his humanity. Written in celebration of the Harrowing/upcoming rework.


**A-Hunting We Will Go**

A man runs through the forest. He's running for his life, his coat billowing out behind him like a parachute as he flees in terror from the savage beast chasing him. The beast delights in his screams of terror as it pursues its prey, waiting for the inevitable moment its quarry falters. A misplaced footstep into a rabbit's burrow, an ankle catching on a stray log, a half-second of hesitation crouching beneath a low branch. No matter the cause of his slowness, it will spell his death, and the monster knows it.

The beast snarls, slavering from its long jaws as it sniff the air, the exciting aroma of its victim's fear delighting it as it gains speed, hurtling forward on all fours, granting it an advantage in speed over the comparative clumsiness of two legs.

"Run, puny human!" it laughs. "Run as fast as you can!" How amusing this all is for it. Pity the poor fellow who's fleeing for his life. His end draws ever closer. In this deep forest, nobody will hear his cries for help. Only the woodland animals will take notice of his wails and hide themselves away, knowing that the devouring terror is coming. Like the sirens that warn the panicked citizens of Zaun of an imminent attack, the howls of the beast serve as a warning to the abundant woodland life to stay away and leave the brute to its feast, lest they become its dessert. Nothing like a quick bite of rabbit after a delectable meal of human flesh, after all.

The man's stamina cannot outlast that of his pursuer. His body grows tired and weak in spite of the adrenaline coursing through it, muscles beginning to cramp from the exertion, lungs overloading as he gasps for oxygen. He can hear his own heart pounding, blood rushing around his ears as his pulse rises and rises. If he does not stop soon, his heart may well fail. There is only so much one can endure before going into cardiac arrest. The beast knows this and does not give up, keeping itself just a short enough distance back to give its prey hope of escaping, providing a reason to keep on running. To the beast, this is a game. For the man, this is the last thing he will ever experience.

The moment comes. A snare trap has been laid by a hunter wishing to poach game for his family's supper, and though it lies in plain sight, the man does not see it, so preoccupied with the creature breathing down his neck that he blindly plants his foot directly into it. Perfect. Up he goes, dangling like a butchered pig. Soon, he'll know exactly what it's like to squeal like those piggies. Its prey conveniently caught and within leaping distance, the beast pounces, its immense muscular weight snapping the snare's support. There'll be more things snapping in a minute if the beast gets its way, which it always does. The man is completely unarmed, caught unprepared as he sauntered through the forbidden forest in search of mushrooms said to be a Yordle delicacy. He should have known that if he came down to the woods today, he'd be in for a big surprise. No teddy bear's picnic today, my friend. Only a grisly death as the beast tears his belly open with its sharp claws and chows down on his intestines. Delicious. A bit fatty, but he's still got the savoury tang this creature loves.

The beast eats its fill, hardly leaving a morsel and making sure the bones are picked clean so that no others may share its kill. Its hunger quelled for the moment, the canine monstrosity surveys its blood-spattered surroundings, looking down as its blue furred torso, now tinged crimson by the blood of its prey. Its paws are darkest of all, having shredded the unfortunate fellow apart without remorse. It's only fun when they run. But now, as the incredible rush fades, the beast begins to remember what it once was. What _he_ was…

"Warwick," he says. "My name… is Warwick." He had never been a good person. He had always been a hunter. It was fitting, really, that his ultimate fate was to be trapped in this monstrous body for eternity. Now his outward appearance matched what had always been inside him. The nation of Zaun had used him as their hound for years. Now, he was better at his job than anyone could ever have hoped, but nobody sought his services any longer. Even by Zaun's standards, he was a monster. A ravaging monster with a thirst for blood should have fit right in, but apparently hiring a werewolf was a step too far for people perfectly happy to carry out unethical experiments on unwilling test subjects.

Warwick had been most willing to undergo his own transformation. He was the one who sought the counsel of the alchemist, Singed, to create a potion that would turn him into an unstoppable hunting machine. The mad scientist had been crafting self-enhancing concoctions for years, so this should have been a simple task. All he had to do was brew up something that could grant superhuman strength, stamina and heightened senses well above the normal threshold. In practice, it was not so simple, as the potion required the essence of a celestial being to be stable enough for human consumption without any unfortunate side effects...

Warwick curses his own rashness as he rests against a tree, but he could never have anticipated that the child of the stars would hold such power. Soraka. The name was a curse to him now, spat in anger as he recalled how she had tainted him. Along with Singed and a few of his mercenary cohorts, Warwick had devised a fool-proof plan to acquire the final ingredient, tricking the girl into leaving her sanctuary and expending her immortality in exchange for his life. Everything had gone according to plan until the moment the girl blasted him away with what remained of her star-born powers. The chance was gone and Warwick's life was in danger, having suffered grievously at Soraka's hands. He needed that potion to survive. That was the day Warwick forfeited his humanity in exchange for the life he leads now.

That day lives long in the memory as Warwick howls. This was not what he had asked for. Clear as crystal, the memory of his excruciating transformation remained etched in his memory, the day his life changed forever. His body had felt as though it was burning as the potion took effect. His former friends fled as the madness took over him. Before all this, Warwick had studied anatomy to further his hunting prowess, learning the most painful and fatal areas of the human body to strike, and in his mind, the anatomical drawings from which his knowledge had been derived flashed before his eyes, accompanied by a hot stabbing sensation. Before his very eyes, his own anatomy began to rearrange itself into a monstrous form, one fit for hunting as he had always desired, but one that came at a terrible cost.

The pain Warwick had experienced throughout his transmogrification was so intense that holes had formed in the memories of it. Or perhaps, as Singed had informed him after his transformation from man to beast was complete, this was one of those 'unfortunate side effects'. Every day he remained in this form, a little more of the human side of Warwick would be lost, until one day he would have no recollection of what he once was, being reduced to naught but a mindless man-eater. The only way this could be reversed was by gathering the final ingredient, the stabilising component that had eluded him that day. Soraka had to die, and he would have to eat her heart. Only then would he be able to stop his descent.

Warwick tries to shake this memory from his head, but he cannot. He _must_ not, for as much as it pains him, he knows this is the only thing that distinguishes him from his bestial appearance and his lust for flesh. Singed's words echo in his head as an eternal reminder. Except, of course, it will not be eternal. Warwick does not know how much time he has before the transition from man to beast is complete, but he knows there is not much time remaining. He struggles to remember his childhood. His family. Who were his mother and father? What did they look like? Warwick no longer knows. He wouldn't care, either, if it weren't for the fact that he _needs_ those memories right now.

Zaun. Warwick remembers Zaun. If he returned to Zaun right now, would he be able to locate the street he grew up on? Perhaps with his enhanced sense of smell, he could track it by scent. But why would he ever want to do that? Nothing he needed remained there now. He curses Soraka again for making him all sentimental for a moment. Sentimentality was an emotional weakness, one that the perfect hunter could not afford to have. Not now, not ever. Hunters don't need emotions. Hunters work on instinct. Those poachers who whistle on their way home with a pheasant slung over their shoulders, they aren't _real_ hunters, they're just pretenders. Every hunter needs his tools, but a true hunter works exclusively with his own weapons. Warwick always has his to hand, his long claws and sharp fangs perfect for rending flesh and grinding the bones of juicy humans.

Something rustles in the bushes nearby, causing Warwick to pause for a moment. He gets down on all fours, poking his snout upwards and sniffing the air. The only scent he catches is that of his latest victim. No sweat, no fear, only the blood of the fallen. Perhaps it's just the wind rustling the leaves of the trees. Maybe a squirrel foraging for nuts. Squirrels are too bony and stringy to bother with. Too busy hoarding their food to become plump and juicy. Whatever the sound is, it isn't worth his time. _Time._ That word strikes a chord, bringing clarity to his split mind once more. Time is precious. Time is running out…

Warwick can no longer picture the faces of his associates. Now that he is inhuman, all humans are starting to look the same. Just as many humans have trouble telling one rabbit from another, he can no longer identify a face by sight. One of the test subjects Singed had asked him to retrieve back before he was cursed was a young man with a condition known as prosopagnosia, or face-blindness. Singed wanted to examine the boy's brain and discover why it was he couldn't tell faces apart, coming to the conclusion that the brain had suffered some form of damage, although after Warwick was finished with him, it was impossible to tell which part was responsible. At the time, Warwick had wondered how such a thing was even possible, but now he understands perfectly. Unlike the boy in question, though, he has his other senses to help identify his prey.

Just from the smell that emanated from his latest kill, he could identify the walking meat-sack as a Zaunite. Yesterday's meal had been an Ionian. How exotic. Their kind weren't usually found around these parts, so it was a pleasant change from the usual. None of them would ever taste quite as good as that celestial girl, though. Warwick starts to slaver as he imagines that moment. She screams for help to no avail as he pins her down and wraps his jaws around her throat, tearing out her windpipe and allowing her to drown in her own blood. In this new form, she will never be able to fight him off. He's far too strong now. No god will be able to stop him mauling her, tearing out her heart and becoming the ultimate killing machine.

" _A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go…"_ Warwick sings to himself. A song of his youth, the youth he knows he must cling to if he is to see out his mission. The mission to become the greatest hunter Zaun would ever know. The mission to keep hold of what little humanity he had left before it was too late.

 **A.N. To celebrate the upcoming Warwick rework I took inspiration from the wargs from A Song of Ice and Fire (specifically the opening of A Dance With Dragons) and Flowers for Algernon to explore what it might be like to experience the gradual loss of one's humanity. Much as mental illnesses such as dementia cause personality changes over time, the mind of a beast-man becomes more and more feral unless they can recover the essence of humanity. LoL has some great lore and I had a lot of fun exploring it.**


End file.
